


Three White Horses

by building_a_desert



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Father/Son Incest, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/building_a_desert/pseuds/building_a_desert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The maturity in his son astonished Rick. He opened his mouth to respond, found his voice momentarily absent, and settled on a nod. He grasped Carl's hand in his own, and a surge of affection, of the need to <i>protect</i> caught him by surprise, taking in their comparative size difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What is it with us all posting in tandem like this lmao. So have I mentioned how inconsistent of a writer I am? >3> I knowwwww I should be working on Orchard but this prompt _spoke_ to me, and while I've totally seen this idea and fantasized over it plenty, now was just the right time to do it.  
>  You can thank the lovely Heatheerly over on tumblr for the inspiration, and being just the kindest freaking soul about my ranting and endless questions about what she was picturing, so here's hoping I didn't royally fuck the whole thing up hahaha ;3
> 
> ALSOO this is part one of two. I have most of the second half finished, but there's some fine tuning that needs to be done. Expect it up within the next few days~  
> ALSOO x2 I keep forgetting to mention where my titles come from, and they're all the lyrics in a song, or the title. We got some Sea Wolf, Bon Iver and Andrew Bird I think, aaaand I'm blanking on the rest. Credit where credit is due and all that. Anyway, enjoy guys~

The steering wheel felt right, _normal_ under Rick's hands. His fingers flexed around the leather casing, rotating it effortlessly. Easing off the accelerator, he allowed forward momentum to guide the car; preserving gas was a top priority in any outing these days.

 

He found his eyes flickering towards his son in quick, furtive glances. The boy was, in a word, statuesque. He appeared deep in thought, or quite possibly the opposite, but the scenery provided a necessary escape for him all the same. Rick couldn't fault him for not wanting to talk, as he himself preferred his own silence to speak for him, so Rick allowed the empty space of the car to stretch between them.

 

His boy had evolved in such a short time, adapting to a world no one could have _possibly_ warned him about. In some ways, Rick often found himself reflecting, Carl's age and subsequent maturation period put his son in a unique possession to survive, perhaps better than most. And as much as it bothered him on some fundamental level, the one that sought to prevent _any_ harm that might befall his child, Rick had to admit that lessons learned in early adolescence tended to be the most lasting. 

 

Still, the prison meant that those lessons could be, while not forgotten, perhaps muted. The prison meant a chance to pick up where they left off. It was a ramshackle parody of what "community" used to mean, but it was enough. 

 

The recent additions of the Woodbury residents helped to reinforce that feeling with regular group meals, every person pitching in to keep their home habitable, and the influx in children certainly made the place seem livelier. Aside from that, having peers close to his own age drew some degree of interest from Carl. He was certainly more talkative these days, though compared to the boy's almost trademark silence, this wasn't saying too much. Either way, the sudden infrequency of violence in his son's life provided Rick with a peace of mind he hadn't had in years. 

 

Carl was slowly shedding his childhood, the protective shell of life’s early influence beginning to lighten, and enabling him to flourish in his own right. The teen didn't seem to see it himself, but it was clear as day to Rick how his son attracted the attention of the other children, as more often than not Carl could be seen with three or four of his friends (though Rick used the term loosely) trailing behind him. The boy still emitted an almost apathetic demeanor, but there was a very natural leadership there, a strength that others picked up on. This positive attention proved crucial to the teen’s self-esteem, and a more jovial attitude gradually emerged. If he were being honest, Rick couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his boy smile quite so much.

 

This sudden development, the emergence of this thriving little personality, made Rick's heart soar. It seemed each day he found a new reason to be proud of his son, with how quickly he's grown, both in cognitive behaviour and basic intellect. But there remained a consistent thought, one that he was finding uncomfortably impossible to ignore, that deliberated on how much the boy had grown _physically._

 

He found himself, too often these days, watching his boy from afar, _indulging_ in ways no father should. Each time he caught his eyes lingering along the teen's lithe build, Rick had to work to avert his gaze, shame crashing in like an icy wave. There was no rhyme or reason, no discernible thought pattern that emerged when he deliberated on the boy. He couldn't make _sense_ of the urges coaxing his body into action, the dreams that left him gasping for breath in the night, thoughts of Carl and his smile, his dimpled cheeks and small, _supple_ form. Those nights inevitably ended in a frustrated hand slipping under the sheets, trying to keep quiet while pleasuring himself to the echoes of his subconscious. The guilt that follows is crippling.

 

For the times when Rick really stops and thinks on what he feels for his son, the answer comes easily, and it _terrifies_ him. Nothing would cause him to act on the shameful thoughts he's had, couldn't bear the thought of forcing such advances on Carl. He'd be inflicting untold damage on the boy's psyche by merely hinting at it. There was no obvious reason he shouldn't be content with the relationship they had, the family they'd built _together,_ and yet greed had wrapped itself snug around his heart. Because the fact remained that the strictly paternal affection he held for his daughter, and the looming weight that came with every thought of his son, were drastically different forms of love.

 

Unfortunately, it felt at times like Carl were still treading on eggshells around him, and an uncomfortable twisting had long since taken up residence in the pit of Rick's stomach. While he _hoped_ he wasn't the cause, he knew very well there remained _something_ between them. Whether it was the storm of losses they'd undergone or something else, it prohibited a willingness on either side to burden the other with actual, potentially therapeutic conversations. Because for the all the smiles, all the comic books and freshly grown food, all the chances to start over, Carl possessed a forlorn nature, untouchable and absolutely breathtaking in its misery, a rose born in a concrete garden.

 

As a father, Rick knew he was obligated to be more forward, to dig deep and ask the questions that maybe Carl didn't want to answer, to evoke some sort of cathartic reaction culminating in a bond not littered with uncertainty and unspoken worries. And now, as their lives had apparently plateaued, was the time to nurture a more open approach. He _needed_ his son to confide in him, needed to be a person the boy didn’t feel the need to rehearse for in fear of the response he might get. He needed to own up to the responsibility he had as a father who lead by example, not by words.

 

Ultimately it almost felt like an excuse, but they _were_ running low on medical supplies; someone would have to go out sooner or later. And while he spent quite a bit of time alone with Carl - the boy helped tend to the crops just about every day - there was undeniably something to be said for the privacy permitted during a two-person run. 

 

"I thought we might try this neighbourhood, 'bout five more miles now," Rick fanned his fingers for a moment before grasping the steering wheel again, "Daryl mentioned it, how he and Michonne left a few houses unchecked."

 

Carl turned to face his father. "And they didn't run into any trouble? While they were there?"

 

It definitely evoked a sense of pride that Rick was always able to fall back on talks of planning, of strategy with Carl, and the boy seemed to adopt the same level of healthy scrutiny he had no doubt imparted. 

 

"Nothin' worth mentioning, apparently." And if there had been, Rick wouldn't have risked bringing his son alone. 

 

His answer seemed to appease Carl, who nodded, and settled back into his seat. A subconscious tension eased itself from Rick's arms, and he silently admonished himself. If a mere _sideways look_ from his son set him so on edge, Rick's confidence in his abilities to stay focused throughout the day was starting to become shaky.

 

The last few miles passed uneventfully, and Rick slowed the car as houses began looming into sight. Rolling to a stop, he shifted into park, and took several moments to survey the area.

 

No sign of movement, save the wind's rustle of the trees. Looking towards Carl, and finding the boy already looking back, made him swallow dryly. There lurked some question, some lingering notion behind that gaze, but Rick resolutely looked away. Exhaling through his nose, he gave a quick nod of his head. Together they quickly gathered their rucksacks, taking care to make as little noise as possible, and, after firmly reassuring himself of their 3/4 worth of fuel, left the car idling just down the road. Though the gas might go to waste, he'd rather it serve as an immediate means of escape, should things escalate. He wouldn't take any chances, not with his son.

 

They walked in tandem, Rick keeping a slight lead with the boy in his peripheral. Watching the manner in which Carl carried himself had always fascinated him, even when the boy was an infant. Seeing something _he_ had made come to life, grow into a capable, competent human being, filled the man with an enormous amount of admiration. And while he didn't enjoy seeing Carl with a firearm, he understood the importance of maintaining sharpened senses.

 

He himself had spent too long reaching for a shovel in lieu of his holster, and as a result, any weakness, any faltering on either of their parts would undeniably be on him. Because for all that he strove to hide his child away from the dangers of the world, Rick couldn't let his son become too accustomed to the luxuries the prison granted. 

 

The fact that his parental agenda constantly toed the line of seeking to nurture, while simultaneously instilling an awareness that the world just wasn't safe, was undoubtedly confusing for the boy. Still, Rick did his best, didn't want Carl to forget that for the all the bad, there was good, and the opposite would always be true. He just hoped he continued to do right by the boy, didn't allow other factors to cloud his judgement.

 

"See those black X's, on some of the houses?" he asked, nodding towards one, "Daryl said they marked those, so we know there's nothin' else of value in them. Which means we won't waste time looking for nothing."

 

Carl nodded, letting out a thoughtful hum. "That was nice of them."

 

A huff of laughter escaped Rick, and he aimed a smile at Carl. "That it was."

 

They searched the first few homes without much conversation, Rick quite naturally falling into the pattern of entering each room before Carl. It wasn't that he doubted the boy's abilities, but rather understood his limitations. The diminutive stature his son possessed, while a painfully tantalizing sight to him, was detrimental to close quarters combat. With such a tactical disadvantage, Rick sometimes couldn't fathom how the teen had managed so well.

 

Rick instructed Carl to search for food, something at which the boy was particularly adept, while he himself raided medicine cabinets, mentally reciting the names of medicine Hershel had recommended he memorize. As they went, Rick marked each house with a large "X", following in their family's example. 

 

The sun hung low in the sky by the time they entered the eighth and last house. It displayed indications of being virtually untouched, strangely enough. As soon as it was confirmed clear, Carl hurried to the kitchen, ransacking the pantry with gusto. Rick watched him go with a gentle fondness, marveling at how his son still found some things to get excited over. Lingering a moment longer, he turned and climbed the stairs to search for more supplies.

 

He collected a fair bit, mostly prescription painkillers, a few rolls of gauze, various ointments. Satisfied with his haul, Rick ventured back downstairs, though stopped at the sight of Carl.

 

The boy's back was to him, seemingly lost in thought. Looking over the the teen's shoulder, Rick was able to make out a photo on the wall with three distinct shapes. It felt like he missed a step going down, a fierce pang of empathy mounting in his chest.

 

The woman in the photo didn't look much like Lori. She was blonde, a little heavier, nor did her husband or child resemble Rick or Carl. But the connection was still made, unavoidable in its resounding message.

 

Feeling as though electricity was crackling through his fingers, Rick closed the distance between them and raised a tentative hand, laying it gently on the boy's neck. He worked to suppress a shiver, agitated at himself for the thoughts straying into his mind, and gave a gentle squeeze.

 

"She was proud of you," he muttered, conviction colouring his voice, "And she'd be proud of you _now."_

 

The blue eyes that blinked up at him were cause enough for Rick's heart to begin hammering rapidly. And, much as he wished he was capable of more restraint, he couldn't help the sudden dip in his gaze, watching as a pink tongue darted out to moisten chapped little lips. He was sure he'd be seeing that again in his dreams.

 

"I hope so," Carl mumbled, though he didn't seem to believe it. His eyes skittered away, taking no notice of his father's fixation, "I just..I forget. I forget about _her._ " His words grew softer, a self conscious attempt to hide, while struggling to be open.

 

Carl's words resulted in a deep uneasiness in his stomach, chastising himself for the direction his thoughts went - _always went_ \- especially when his child so obviously needed guidance, his _reassurance._

 

He grasped the boy tenderly by both shoulders, marveling at how _small_ he was, and shifted his son bodily to look him in the eye.

 

"You don't need to blame yourself for that, Carl. That's not _on_ you, that's not -" he sighed, pursing his lips before trying again, "Things have happened. A lot of things. It's natural that you stop thinking about your mother every day, because you can't let yourself get stuck in the past when you need to be in the present," one of Rick's thumbs began absently caressing his son's collarbone, "like I did."

 

He watched as the teen struggled to maintain eye contact before severing it, eyes dropping to trace the details of his father's face instead. A very specific tension leaked into the air, and Rick felt his lungs draw in a breath, as if in preparation. That mutual wavelength, an undefinable aspect of their relationship, pulsed between Rick and his son, and he knew he needed to be the one to break it.

 

"It's..gettin' dark," he said slowly, retracting one hand, "We'd best be getting back."

 

Carl seemed to come to at his father's words, and after a moment nodded, stepping away to reach into his backpack. "I found more baby food," he said suddenly, looking up at Rick hopefully from under the brim of his hat, "and this."

 

He extracted a stuffed rabbit, looking for all intents and purposes as though it had never been played with. Rick didn't notice the smile on his face at first, and couldn't stamp down the need to reach out again, stroking a hand down his son's neck. The boy returned his smile, leaning ever-so-slightly into Rick's touch.

 

"I figured her teddy bear's been through the wringer," he shrugged, "seemed like the sort of thing she'd like."

 

Rick nodded, letting out a sigh of contentment as he drew his boy close, laying a kiss on his temple. "I'm proud of you," he muttered, pulling away with one more meaningful look. 

 

They left the house, careful to be more alert as twilight settled. Rick felt considerably lighter, like a weight had been partially lifted. For even though they hadn't exchanged many words, the kinship between him and his son seemed strengthened. 

 

The closer they drew to the car, however, the heavier Rick's burden became. He realized the silence they were hearing wasn't what they wanted, that the telltale motor indicating engine life _wasn't_ running. 

 

Trepidation licking at his heels, Rick hurried them both forward, ordered Carl to get into the car, and quickly scrambled into the driver's seat. The keys were still in the ignition, so he turned them with practiced ease, watching as the battery sputtered on, though the fuel gauge remained stationary, well below "E". 

 

He didn't _understand._ While he hadn't filled it up himself, Daryl had reassured him of the full tank, of a full inspection because he _knew_ he wouldn't let Carl leave the prison without being sure he'd done everything to ensure his safety.

 

"What's going on?" Carl asked, eyeing his father warily.

 

"We're outta gas," Rick answered, "which doesn't make any sense, unless there's somethin' else, a faulty fuel gauge?" He shook his head, trying to clear it. He hadn't _prepared_ for this, which went to show how complacent he'd become. Rick's demeanour began slipping, wracking his mind for an immediate solution.

 

"We've gotta stay here, find a place to stay for the night. C'mon." 

 

Without waiting for a response, Rick exited the vehicle and rushed to the passenger side, ushering the boy forward.

 

"Why don't we just siphon more gas? There's gotta be some in the cars around here." Though Carl's words weren't argumentative, Rick felt a sliver of agitation. 

 

"Too dangerous to be out after dark." Too dangerous for _Carl_ to be out after dark. " _C'mon._ "

 

The teen didn't speak again, simply hurried with his father into the last house they had checked. Rick closed and dead bolted the door, then turned to Carl. 

 

"I need you to grab all the sheets, blankets, tablecloths, whatever you can find." He didn't ignore the profound relief he felt when the teen nodded, racing up the stairs and obeying him without question. 

 

Turning towards the vast interior of the ground level, Rick immediately set to hefting large pieces of furniture towards the windows and doors, leaving a gap for when Carl joined him again downstairs. Together, they strung up sheets across every window, then pushed the furniture tight to almost every entrance to the house.

 

Rick felt slightly panicky, though did his best to mask it in front of his boy. It could mean nothing, as he'd said earlier, just something wrong with the wiring, but he could have _sworn_ Daryl mentioned he topped off the tank. And while idling certainly costs gas, a mere three, maybe four hours wasn't enough to drain three _quarters_ full.

 

If there was foul play, the best case scenario was a few desperate people who saw the opportunity to steal a mostly full tank. But that surfaced the question of why they didn't steal the _car._ Worry swirled in Rick's mind, trying very hard to rationalize away the loss of fuel, but continuously coming up short.

 

The sensation of Carl laying a delicate hand on his forearm helped Rick break out of his thoughts. Looking down at the boy, he took in the furrow in his brow, the tiniest wrinkle betraying the concern he felt for his father. 

 

"Dad," he whispered, and Rick latched onto that sweet voice, let it anchor him, "we'll be okay. You _know_ they're gonna be looking for us, don't you?" Carl gestured vaguely, continuing.

 

"Daryl, Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, they're probably organizing a search party _right now._ " A small smile crawled onto the teen's lips. "So we'll just wait it out, right?"

 

The maturity in his son astonished Rick. He opened his mouth to respond, found his voice momentarily absent, and settled on a nod. He grasped Carl's hand in his own, and a surge of affection, of the need to _protect_ caught him by surprise, taking in their comparative size difference. Giving it a careful squeeze, he pulled away.

 

"I'll take first watch, why don't you go on and rest up," he suggested, fully intending to let Carl sleep for the whole night. He wasn't about to sleep with a potential threat on their doorstep.

 

"I'm not tired," the boy offered, "Plus I wanna be awake when they get here," he added, as though it were obvious.

 

And though Rick wanted his child to rest, he also couldn't deny the extra set of eyes. So he nodded, letting Carl make his way down the hall, the boy explaining his wish to search the nursery for more things for Judith. 

 

After finding a candle and cutting the wick to a mere nub, Rick sat back against the wall facing the front door. He'd keep a sharp ear, a steady mind, just waiting for the first sound of movement.

 

Time passed, and confirmation from his watch told Rick he had been sitting for nearly two hours. He had learned to drown out the occasional creak of a floorboard from Carl making rounds around the house, checking for weak spots. The flame flickered every now and then, captivating Rick in its meager glow. The dancing light evoked a primitive sort of hypnotism, until all he saw were visions of his son. 

 

———

 

A crash, heavy footfalls, a muffled shout.

 

Rick was on his feet before he knew it, immediately cursing himself for falling asleep. He raced down the hall, his son's name slipping out of his mouth in a habitual, anxious slur. 

 

"Dad, _watch out - !"_

 

The last thing Rick remembered was something solid, _weighted,_ administering a swift blow to his head, before the ground rushed to meet him.

 

———

Waking up after a head injury, Rick could manage. Waking up to the sight of his boy at gun point, the form of a larger man behind him keeping him immobile, was something the man was ill prepared for. A coiling in his stomach spread rapidly throughout the rest of his body, and he didn't try to block out the red filtering his vision.

 

Rick's instinctive reaction was to lunge to the safety of his child, but upon trying discovered his inability to do so. Snarling, his attention redirected to the radiator beside him, and the _handcuffs_ binding him to it.

 

 _"Carl!"_ Rick shouted, frantically yanking at his restraints, paying no mind when they dug into his wrists. Pain was no obstacle, didn't even register. The only thing that mattered was getting to his _son._

 

"Easy now," a voice to his left spoke, and Rick had to strain his neck to look. A second man, close in age to the first, walked slowly into his field of view. Rick felt a deep hatred settle in his veins, eyes warily following the man's movements, twitching when they caught the insincere smirk playing on his lips.

 

"As long as you cooperate, you'll be fine," he continued simply, dropping to a crouch just out of reach of Rick.

 

"What," Rick looked this stranger, this _intruder_ squarely in the eye, "do you want?"

 

The man just smiled again. "Well to start, we want information. Nothing too complicated," he was quick to reassure, "just a few, simple questions."

 

Rick felt a muscle in his face twitch, but remained silent. The man let out a huff of laughter, but pressed on.

 

"First thing's first: what's your name?"

 

The question caught him off guard, but Rick managed to maintain his aloof expression. His head tilted, eyes narrowing. He was getting strung along, and he _knew_ it, but with all stakes against him, Rick wasn't sure there any advantage he could take.

 

"Rick," he settled on, surname amounting to little these days.

 

The man looked pleased, shrugging with his hands. "See? Not too hard."

 

Rick glowered, eyes refusing to lose contact.

 

"And apparently you're not too talkative," came the next smarmy retort, followed by another unsympathetic smile, "and I'd ask for your boy's name, but you already gave it to us." 

 

The words served only to further inflame Rick.

 

Apparently finding himself entertaining, the man continued. "I think we can move on. Are you two alone?"

 

Rick knew what his captor was doing, understood the tactics at play, but the very distracting threat to his son in his peripheral worked tirelessly to break his concentration.

 

"No," he finally decided on, praying his half truths would go undetected, "we've got more, and they'll be coming soon. We planned a rendezvous point -"

 

A sharp intake of breath over the man's shoulder redirected Rick's attention, heart seizing as he watched the first man, the _real_ danger, sliding one hand around his hostage's chest to paw mockingly at Carl's cheek. The teen closed his eyes tightly, the smallest of whimpers escaping as he squirmed in distress.

 

"Get your hands off him!" Rick demanded, anger boiling over at the sight of his boy, the man behind him, and the horrifying implications of such an action. Blood dripped down his arms as the metal cuffs began biting into Rick's wrists, though he paid it no mind, his sole focus on getting his boy as far away as possible.

 

"Trick question," tsked the second man, "we were watching you; how'd you think we knew how to get in?" Like he was lecturing a child, he went on, "You should really barricade every window next time." While he didn't look angry, there was a noticeable drop in the man's objectively reasonable demeanour. Rick visibly tensed when he suddenly drew a knife from his belt, gesturing with it towards Rick. 

 

"See, normally, I'd do something that would hurt. A lot. Each time that you lie, that is. Like, cut off a finger or, shoot you in the kneecap," he continued on, counting the ways with his free hand, "but here, we have _leverage."_

 

The grin that lit up his face made it seem as if he'd just told a joke. Glancing briefly at the man behind Carl, he turned back and cupped one hand around his mouth, like he was trying to keep his words secret.

 

"Now _I_ never had any affinity with kids," he mumbled, "But my friend here, he _loves_ them." Nodding seriously, he went on.

 

"So as long as you're honest, you, or really the kid, has nothing to worry about."

 

Rick's blood _burned._ He watched the man holding his son captive, watched the gun buried in the boy's hair, the way the _pedophile_ \- because if Rick was to understand the risks here he couldn't shy away from words that made his skin crawl - cooed something in Carl's ear, his free hand trailing down the boy's torso suggestively.

 

"Alright?"

 

A buzzing filled Rick's ears, a dull noise that only grew louder as he caught his son's eye, and he tried to communicate comfort and strength and _love_ but couldn't be sure that blatant fear didn't drown out everything else.

 

Looking back towards the second man, Rick nodded.

 

The questions went by in a blur, but he answered them as best he could, trying to leave out at as many details as possible without leaving holes in his story. Some were simple, where their food was, medicine, vehicle, supplies, etc. Others were more difficult, where he was from, who he used to be, how the new world and the state of things made him _feel._ Rick fully understood he was being toyed with, but there wasn't another option.

 

When the inevitable "Where's your camp?" surfaced however, he hesitated. He had been honest up until now, had told the man everything he wanted to know. Rick weighed the chance that the potential lie responsible for breaking his string of truths would go unnoticed. The prison was a stronghold, and two men would get torn apart by walkers before they even reached the gate. But Rick wasn't sure if there were _more_ of them. Maybe he became complacent, if he could in such a situation. Maybe he wasn't thinking straight, maybe he had a concussion.

 

Either way, he made a mistake.

 

"Had one," he croaked, "a herd came through, not three weeks ago. We scattered. Don't know if anyone else survived." He tried to look contrite, something immensely difficult when his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. "Been just me and him since."

 

There was a split second where Rick thought his bluff went unchecked. The moment was broken by the man thinning his lips, and shaking his head. Exhaling deeply through his nose, he turned his head to the side, staring at the far wall.

 

"Take him."

 

Terror gripped at Rick, rising to his knees as his son's captor eagerly dragged the boy out of the room. An inhuman cry escaped him, all survival instincts howling at him to _follow,_ to give _chase_ and tear the threat _limb from limb._

 

He was shouting demands to let his son go, pleas to punish him instead, _anything_ to put a halt to the choked off groans and whimpers echoing down the hall. A resounding slap, the sound of Carl crying out in pain, of _torn clothing,_ and Rick no longer knew sanity,

 

"Woah, hey now," came the voice of his tormentor, who had the _gall_ to find amusement in his anguish, goading the beast, edging closer than he had dared before, "I told you what the rules were, Rick. You brought this on yourself."

 

Rick wouldn't have been able to explain how he broke free. The absolute _need_ to reach his child, to locate Carl and shield him from the horror of _violation,_ surpassed his own body's limitations. 

 

It was over in a matter of moments. Like a wolf escaping its shackles, Rick lunged, striking out to grab the knife and, using the man's surprise to his advantage, thrust it deep into his captor's neck. 

 

The eyes scream when the mouth can't, but Rick had no time to derive much pleasure from the kill. Removing the blade resulted in several small geysers of blood directly spitting Rick in the face. He ignored it, choosing instead to end it quickly with a sharp stab through the brain. 

 

He dropped the body and strode quickly down the hall, tracking the sounds of his child who _needed_ him. And while he'd been expecting the worst, nothing could have actually prepared Rick for the sight that met him in the bedroom.

 

Carl - helpless, _precious_ boy - was pinned facedown to the bed, pants hanging off one leg while his assailant struggled to subdue him. One of Carl's arms was being held tight across his back, bruising the soft flesh. The gun had been placed on the bedside table, within reach, but without seeing Rick, the man didn't stand a chance. He did hear someone entering the room, but clearly expected his friend.

 

"Now that you took care of that guy, mind giving me a hand?" his son's attacker asked gruffly, "this one's a fighter."

 

Rick wasn't aware that he'd stabbed the man when he did, but the screams clued him in quickly enough.

 

Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, Rick hauled the man up and off his son, deliberately dragging the knife in an upward motion along his back as the body it was embedded in moved. It must have been horrific to know he was being attacked, but unable to fully see the perpetrator, Rick noted ironically.

 

With a savage tug, he extracted the knife and discarded it. It wasn't _enough_ to just bleed out. He threw the man to the ground as well, letting him fall on his back, on his _wound._ Rick was beyond denying the twinge of satisfaction when he saw the face of his son's tormentor contorted in pain.

 

He fell on him without a second thought, unleashing every moment of pent up aggression and unadulterated hatred that had built over the last hour. Channeling his anger into violence was something Rick never prided himself on, but he was highly capable of it. Never before had he let himself go without any impulse control, without anyone around to stop him. All he knew was the certainty that if he stopped for even a _second_ his son would no longer be safe. 

 

Their flailing bodies slid along the floor, but Rick remained firmly on top, a sort of primal strength possessing him. He couldn't get the image of Carl out of his head, the boy's writhing, _helpless_ form superimposed with every blink. He wasn't sure he had ever experienced a rage so wholly encompassing, so natural and justified, but here there was no need to restrain himself, not when survival was at stake.

 

But how Rick's nerves felt _inflamed,_ mind reverting back to a state of intuitive action where every attempt to gain the upper hand by his opponent was bested. There _was_ no upper hand to be gained, for even if the blood loss wasn't fatal, Rick wouldn't stop until he'd rendered every spasm of pain from the vile _thing_ below him. And while desperate limbs shot at Rick from every angle, he deflected them with quick, agitated movements, and muscled his way closer, fully asserting the power he held over this man.

 

Rick bared his teeth in an instinctive snarl, managing to pin one arm to the ground, wanting the man to feel equally as defenseless, as _afraid_ as he'd made Carl. With a jolt of disgust, Rick aimed a swift shot to the temple, effectively stunning his prey. He used the momentary distraction to wrench the man's head up by the hair and slammed it back down with a resounding thud, grunting in exertion as he repeated the action twice.

 

But he was still _breathing._ With a deep growl, Rick launched forward, hands latching like twin snakes to either side of the piece of _filth's_ neck. He watched those eyes flutter open, dancing frantically in their sockets as their owner struggled to find the source of the agony accosting his lungs. 

 

There was a comforting notion in his own face being the last thing the man would see, a sort of righteous vindication coursing through Rick's veins as he pressed down _harder,_ digging his fingernails into the bulging flesh. Death encroached ever nearer, and Rick's arms shook violently, bearing his full weight down. He made sure to remain squarely in the dying man's line of vision, needing to communicate that it was _him_ responsible for the end of his life. 

 

But his boy, his precious, _fragile_ boy, and the knowledge that he'd even been touched by such trash, almost _defiled_ before his eyes, caused Rick to hold on long after his son's attacker perished. His mind became stuck in a positive feedback loop, reminding him that Carl needed him, and in order to assuage that need he must eliminate the threat, but he needed to be sure, be _certain_ he'd made up for the trauma the threat had caused his son. If he let go now, he wasn't sure what would happen.

 

Rick's mind continued to feed itself circular logic while he slowly lost track of time, hands still grasped tight around a dead man's neck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a couple days turned into like a week and I suck i knowwwww. But work sucks with black friday and christmas coming up, so I've been busy. That and editing the fuck outta this thing cuz I'm never satisfied with my work ._. but shiiiiit, nearly 12,000 words in total's not too bad eh?
> 
> HEED THE WARNINGS BTW cuz even though I didn't give this thing an explicit rating for a reason, the attempted assault might still be kinda graphic. And I'm reeeeally hoping I don't offend anybody if my portrayal of someone who was nearly attacked is unrealistic.
> 
> Anyway, I'm really holding out that you guys will enjoy it, and the copious amounts of h/c might make up for the angst. Hope Heatheerly finds this fill satisfying as well <3

"No, I - _stop!_ "

 

The open palm meeting his face stunned Carl into silence. He could distantly hear his father screaming from the other room, could taste blood from where his teeth sunk into his cheek, and felt himself being dragged over the threshold into the master bedroom.

 

The last thought kicked his senses online, and the moment Carl's back hit the mattress he renewed his struggles. A very potent fear had manifested itself because he _knew_ what this man was attempting, had heard the whispers of some Woodbury residents and the horrors they'd seen, even experienced themselves. The need to survive surfaced rapidly, _demanding_ he fight until it was no longer an option.

 

"Stop fuckin' _moving,_ " grunted the man on top of him, frustration evident on his face, "sooner you settle down, sooner it's over."

 

The boy tried pushing him away, tried striking _back,_ resulting only in his captor grabbing both of Carl's wrists in one hand and angrily pinning them above his head. Tears clouding his vision, he twisted his body as best he could, searching for _anything_ he might use to free himself. The sight of the handgun, hardly three feet away, made his heart stutter with hope. But confined as he was, the prospect was looking dim.

 

Thoughts of his father floated through his mind, the fury etched deeply into every line of his face, the way he had tried _desperately_ to reach Carl, and the poignant guilt that erased away every other emotion when he realized how one _lie_ had resulted in _this._ But Carl didn't blame his father - he couldn't. Not when he knew the prison was everything, that each life stashed away, happy and safe, was _their_ responsibility.

 

The boy's inner thoughts, an attempt to comfort, to create _distance_ , were interrupted as a hand fisted in his collar. He cried out as it ripped downward, the top few buttons scattering. His breathing had turned shallow, making oxygen a precious commodity as a hand unbuttoned his jeans with ease. And though he did _everything_ to keep them on, a harsh tug was all that was needed to slip them down the teen's legs.

 

"You still wanna make this difficult?" Carl's eyes raced all over the room, realized how _impossible_ it was to look his attacker in the face, "this could've been easy, just remember that."

 

The world suddenly flipped, and Carl found himself facing the headboard, his back to the man on top of him. The sudden inability to _see_ what was happening, powerless to defend himself, caused his blood to freeze. Panic blinded the boy, breath hitching as his arms clawed and scrabbled for purchase, just trying to drag himself _away._ He couldn't remember any walker making him feel so trapped, so afraid and without any means of _escape -_

 

A distant clamour reverberated through Carl's ears, and to him it sounded like miles away, though the man on top of him paused to laugh.

 

"Sounds like your old man's been dealt with," he mocked, breathing low into the junction of the teen's neck, "guess that means I get to _keep_ you."

 

The hand wrenching his forearm tight to his back and refusing any leeway, rewarding any attempt to break free with _nothing_ but further pain, was incomparable to the grief shocking his system. Movements restricted, the boy let sobs wrack his form, a haze creeping into his mind as he was forced to accept that he wasn't strong enough, that he was alone and _couldn't defend himself._

 

Heavy footfalls made their way into the room. Carl could only let more tears escape, the reality of his situation making his muscles slacken in defeat. If Rick was gone, Carl didn't feel the need to continue, wasn't sure how to to even _begin_. But a simmering rage had surfaced, stirring uneasily in his stomach. The man who killed his father had just entered the bedroom, and though he hadn't yet turned to look, couldn't yet see the unsympathetic smile no doubt stretching his lips, the drive to kill _him_ was suddenly the only thing on his mind. With a focus to zero in on, the boy locked his gaze on the gun, counting his blessings that his free arm was closest to it.

 

He let his captor inhale deeply at the base of his neck, allowed thick, rubbery lips to mouth at his skin, and deeply hated himself for tilting his head. It was all for the sake of the gun, for making these men understand the levity of what they had done. He had to think _strategically._ Once their guard was down he would strike, would hurt _them._

 

But the request for help - help in keeping him pinned _down_ \- sent his thoughts derailing, his plan moments from ruination. The answering movement behind him filled the teen with dread. He couldn't fight off one man, let alone two. The option of escape was quickly dwindling. He felt panic rising, thoughts screaming at him to grab the gun, to grab it _now -_

 

He froze. And though the noise startled Carl, he knew by now what sound a knife made as it sunk into a body. He felt his heart hammering, immediately concluding that _he'd_ been stabbed, before the man on top of him released a thick, wheezing groan, and comprehension dawned on the boy.

 

The weight lifting off of Carl made way for deep relief, and he was quick to twist around, curling into the headboard. Nothing he had ever felt was tantamount to the sheer exhilaration welling up, watching, entranced, as his father wrestled the man to the floor. Rick delivered countless sharp blows, raining anywhere from face to gut; he was an overpowering force, impossible to avoid. It was akin to watching animals fighting, one grappling for control while the other, his _father,_ easily maintained it. 

 

The ferocity Rick embodied was staggering, as though the man had given complete control to his instincts. He didn't seem _aware_ of anything else, sole focus being that of enforcing the consequences of touching his son. A thrill went through Carl at the thought, pulling his knees tighter to his chest. 

 

It couldn't have taken more than a few minutes, but it felt as though hours had passed. The teen felt conflicted about the prospect of approaching Rick, unsure of the mental state of his father and how best to continue. His lips quivered when he tried to use them, his voice more of a whimper than anything.

 

"Dad.."

 

It didn't make any impact. Rick remained on the ground, crouched over the motionless form of his boy's attacker. Strong hands flexed tight around the man's throat, as if to ensure his death, as if that might _prolong_ his suffering. He didn't seem aware of the artery no longer throbbing beneath his palms.

 

With legs like wax, Carl struggled to his feet, grappling with his jeans in the process. His head was buzzing numbly, all thoughts redirecting back toward his father and the responsibility he now had, that he fully intended to rise to. Despite this, a deep shame bubbled lowly in the pit of the boy's stomach, but he did his best to ignore it for now. He knew he needed to keep his thinking clear, if not for himself, for Rick. Shuffling forward, Carl tried calling the man again, but still received no response.

 

Ignoring the blood pooling on the hardwood, the teen fell to his knees before Rick. He worked to steady his breathing, turning his involuntary gasp into a shaky inhale. His father's familiar features were marred by gore and delirium, inky red staining his cheeks. His mind prodded forward the image of Rick stalking towards his attacker, of doing everything within his power to make him _hurt._ It was a memory he would now come to associate with his father, what his father would _do_ for his sake. 

 

Batting this train of thought away, Carl worked to focus on rousing the man from the state he'd forced himself into. Rick's eyes were heavily glazed over, staring, unseeing, at the asphyxiated face below him. There didn't seem to be any lucidity in his gaze, something the boy realized with rising panic. No sense of recognition or awareness shined from those normally attentive eyes. 

 

_"Dad."_

 

Not even a twitch.

 

Holding his breath, Carl reached a trembling hand forward and rested it gently atop both of his father's. With the utmost care, he detangled Rick's grip from around his attacker's neck, and laced their fingers together, so as to keep his father - and admittedly, himself - grounded. Almost as an afterthought, he grasped the knife discarded by Rick with his free hand and turned towards the man laying dead on the ground. 

 

Without a moment's hesitation, Carl drove the blade through the skull of the monster who had terrorized him, held him down, stripped him _half bare,_ not stopping until he felt the tip touch the floor. 

 

He left it there.

 

Turning away, Carl squeezed Rick's hand, a long forgotten gesture of affection, of seeking to _comfort,_ and felt his heart continue to hammer rapidly. With slow movements, as if calming a wild animal in shock, the teen gently eased his father into a reclining position against the side of the bed, away from the fresh kill. Almost inaudible murmurs escaped the man's lips, eyes roving languidly as though the room were a two-dimensional backdrop, something to observe, but not interact with. 

 

He knelt there before his father, joined hands lowering to rest on the man's thigh as his thumb caressed in a soothing fashion. Of the few spoken sounds his ears picked up on, Carl had no hope of discerning. He continued gazing at the man's face. His eyes searched for just a glimmer of vigilance so commonplace there, but was met with only more disappointment. 

 

After giving the larger hand one more firm squeeze, Carl effectively slipped his own free. He wished he could offer some vague solace, and eyed the blood painting Rick's face, seeping into his pores. A notion occurred to him, but he hesitated to leave the man alone, wanting nothing more than to keep guard over the vulnerable husk his father had retreated into. But the need to do _something,_ to provide some meager comfort for his father, was pushing more and more urgently.

 

Carl stood slowly, walking carefully towards the door and keeping Rick in sight. The man didn't move, however, seemed to not even notice the movement around him. With one more backwards glance, the boy hurried down to the end of hall, entering the living room. His footsteps halted abruptly. 

 

The man who had taunted Rick, who had given the _order_ for Carl's violation, who Carl seriously believed had killed his father, lay sprawled dead on the floor. There was a sizable pool of blood encroaching onto the carpet below his body, and the teen found himself unable to look away.

 

He hadn't had time to consider the man's fate, hadn't thought about what _else_ his father had done to rescue him. Eyes drifting towards the radiator, he felt a jolt of electricity dart up his spine. The section Rick's handcuffs had been strung through looked as though it had been bent to one side, bulging slightly. His mind prodded forward the sound of distant, grating metal, a scream cut short. The scene painted itself easily behind Carl's eyes. 

 

Dropping beside his rucksack - and very pointedly ignoring the body not two feet away - the teen began digging through the few belongings he'd taken with him. Grabbing a bottle of water as well as a shirt he'd managed to scavenge, Carl intended to hurry back to his father, but stopped. He turned instead to slowly approach the man on the floor, thoroughly sacrificing his socks as warm blood seeped into them. With practiced ease, the teen methodically searched the corpse's pockets until his nimble fingers snatched up what he was looking for. Extracting his hand, he held the tiny key up for a brief inspection before quickly stowing it away and returning to Rick. 

 

He made sure to keep his movements deliberate and obvious once he re-entered the room. It wasn't that he was afraid of Rick, quite the opposite. Sitting before the man, he was stricken with a rush of adoration, the very kind he'd fought _so hard_ to ignore for months. For even - _especially_ \- now, splattered in the blood of his enemies, Carl thought his father was one of the most breathtaking sights he'd ever seen. This was only weighted heavier with the knowledge that _he_ was the reason for such bloodshed. 

 

In order to protect Carl, Rick had proven he was willing to suppress his morals, his _humanity._ And although it left the boy overwhelmed and confused, he couldn't help the immense burden that came with admitting he'd wanted to _watch,_ had wanted to see his father's reaction and witness him exact the sort of internalized violence the teen wasn't physically able to express.

 

He had wanted that man to suffer, but seeing his father so driven by a strength, a near inhuman rage Carl couldn’t begin to fathom, was more than a little daunting. Because for all the times he'd seen Rick take down a walker, it was something else entirely when he actually _murdered_ someone. Carl wasn't sure how to progress from here, was completely unsure of his footing. It made everything just that much worse that the catatonic man before him was a side of his father he'd never known existed. 

 

Reaching into his pocket, the teen fished out the small key. With a careful hand, he made quick work of the rings still locked to Rick's wrists, chain dangling from either cuff. He felt his heart skip a beat; the strength that would have been required to break free was unimaginable. Examining his own wrists, he knew with certainty he wouldn't have been able to escape, would likely have injured himself greatly in the struggle to do so. But his father hadn't walked away unscathed, the angry grooves cut into his wrists testament to that.

 

He tossed the cuffs away and lifted the water bottle. Carl unscrewed it with unsteady fingers, though cursed his nerves as he tipped it too sharply, thoroughly soaking the fabric in his hand. Feeling a chill sneaking up his spine, the boy edged closer still, settling more comfortably on his knees beside Rick's outstretched legs, facing him. 

 

He took in a deep breath. Leaning forward slightly, the teen let his free hand rest hesitantly against his father's shoulder, using him for balance. The contact didn't phase the man, save for a slight spasm in the hand. Leaning forward, Carl gently pressed the makeshift washcloth against Rick's cheek, swiping it slowly in downward motions. The man's eyes flickered suddenly, struggling to focus on Carl's own face, a clear response to stimuli. The boy froze, watching his father on bated breath. He knew Rick wouldn't hurt him, there was no question in that, but he also knew the man was unpredictable, especially under duress.

 

Too quickly, however, the clarity that shined through faded away, and Carl was left alone once again. Disheartened but still needing to keep himself busy, he resumed his ministrations. With the softest of movements, he set to cleaning Rick, taking care not to snag in the blood matting his father's beard. 

 

As he worked, thoughts that the boy had been avoiding began fluttering around his head. The horror that had gripped him as he was flipped face down, the lack of fortitude he had shown in response. Wet kisses trailing down the back of his neck as fear kept him paralyzed, the sharp pain in his shoulder from being contorted in the wrong position. Nausea crept up the back of Carl's throat from his memories, but they kept coming, one after the other. Sick promises whispered in his ear to never let him go, to keep him as if he were a _pet,_ and the utter despair that came with being told, for the second time in his life, that his father was _dead._ The teen's hand trembled, his grip on the fabric slackening until it dropped to the floor with heavy splat.

 

Blurry eyed, Carl fell forward into his father's chest, a whine rising in his throat. He couldn't keep distancing himself from Rick, couldn't continue to let emerging thoughts and forbidden desires create a gaping chasm between them. For so _long_ now his father had been the only one he could see, his final pillar of strength that without, he'd be nothing.

 

But alongside those feelings came self disgust, something that had been harbouring a spot in Carl's heart for months. In an effort to avoid burdening Rick with his - _unnatural_ \- feelings, he'd been much more closed off, withholding his words around the man. So when his father asked him if he'd like to accompany him on a run, Carl had almost refused on principle. He could barely handle being alone with the man at the prison, constantly bursting at the seams with things he could never say. Ultimately however, there was no good excuse. Especially not when it seemed so important to Rick, further evidenced by the man giving Carl his gun back.

 

Now he wished they'd never gone. His hands burrowed themselves into his father's shirt, using it as leverage to pull himself closer. Carl wanted to minimize the space between them, as though that might begin making up for the rift he himself put into place. He couldn't put into words, couldn't _quantify_ what he felt. Everything seemed to work best in the moment. Moments where he was the one thing in his father's world, where he could pretend the unconditional love directed at him was interwoven with a deeper layer of admiration.

 

The boy's shoulders shook with ill-concealed sobs. He wanted nothing more than to lay in his father's arms for the next day or two, a week even. He inhaled shakily, made an attempt to steady his breathing, but once the tears started, they refused to stop. He cried for the danger they'd narrowly avoided, the pain his father went through to rescue him, and the psychological effects it was reaping now. He cried for the thoughts that would continue to accost him _every moment_ he spent with Rick, for the things he wanted but would never receive, not wiling to jeopardize the affection he was still given so long as his father never found out. 

 

He felt so swept away in grief that when sturdy arms encircled his form he jumped, a moment of fear sweeping itself under his feet. Pulling his face back quickly, the teen tilted his head up and the tenuous fault line bisecting Carl's foundations finally split.

 

Lips met his, not rough but _demanding_ in their urgency. The boy couldn't help the sound that escaped - something between a gasp and a moan, he felt embarrassed to note - and was compelled to keep his mouth open as Rick's tongue gained entrance. Initial shock wearing off, the teen's eyes slipped closed of their own volition, and he allowed himself to _feel._

 

His father's hands clutched tight to his sides, sliding frantically along his torso, waist, _hips._ Carl leaned heavily against the older man, senses overwhelmed by feeling so secure. Conspicuously absent was a sense of alarm. He knew that anyone else's touch would make him uneasy, send him cowering for the nearest source of comfort. But his father always _was_ that source of comfort, Rick's arms around him a greatly coveted thing he'd often taken for granted. He couldn't remember a time he had sought his father's embrace without being met with love and compassion, the press of soft lips to his temple.

 

Now however, Carl was dizzy from his father's kiss. Rick licked into his mouth and the boy tried to reciprocate, tried to mimic motions he'd never practiced, meeting the larger tongue with his own. His father's overpowering presence was staggering, and the boy was certain that without the arms supporting him he would surely fall limp to the floor. He could feel thick muscles shift beneath his palms, and under those recognized a steady heartbeat. The continuous rhythm set him at ease, inducing a semi-pliant state as his father pillaged his mouth. 

 

Still, a foreign desperation was crawling under his skin. It urged him to continue but left him entirely unsure _how._ As if reading his thoughts, one of Rick's hands travelled up the expanse of his back and buried itself in his hair, cupping the back of his head. A surge of relief went through the teen, not realizing how _badly_ he needed his father's guidance until he had it. The supporting hand kept his head in place, showed him what he needed to do without forcing it.

 

The shiver that wracked his body caused Carl to whimper, clutching tighter to Rick's collar. His breath hitched as a strong arm pulled him closer in response, hefting him sideways onto his father's lap. Both of the's boy legs draped over the same side of Rick's thighs, bending at the knee to further curl into the man. He twisted his torso slightly, wanting maintain as much contact as possible as a sense of weightlessness engulfed him, giving complete power to the man least likely to abuse it. Positively trembling, he slid a hand up Rick's neck and caressed the man's face hesitantly.

 

As if waking from a dream, the ferocity within the older man began to ebb. His lips slowed to gentler speed, coaxing Carl's into a pace that didn't render him quite as dumbstruck. Dimly, he noted how it felt so very much like his father might be apologizing, attempting to compensate for his harsh treatment, and yet couldn't _quite_ bring himself to pull away from his boy. 

 

There was no readily offered answer, no black and white explanation for his father's actions. He was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that by all rights he should be shying away from any and all physical contact. And yet he never could refuse the touch of his father, simply because it had never proven itself to be anything but loving. Rick had yet to raise a hand to his son, had never even _threatened_ it. It seemed fair to say, at least against Carl, the man was incapable of violence.

 

The teen sighed into the kiss. An intoxicating blend of cinnamon and something so uniquely _Rick_ lit up his senses, making him lightheaded. Perhaps this was an attempt on the part of his father to erase the touch of the man before him, replace any lingering phantom sensations with that of his own. A thrill went through his body, thoughts edging towards his father's almost possessive tendencies. And though he wouldn't say it out loud, wouldn't know _how,_ he secretly reveled in the attention. He couldn't say how long he'd thought of sharing his first kiss with his father, fantasized over his lips and wondered how they'd _taste._ He could only hope this meant his affections were returned, that his father had been suppressing his own thoughts, and that maybe _now_ he could freely express them.

 

Carl continued to let Rick take the lead, understanding on an intrinsic level how the man needed this; he was allowing himself to serve as a means for his father to find his way to the surface. The man needed to ground himself, and if this was how he found reassurance that he'd kept his child safe, Carl wasn't about to deprive him - or himself. 

 

Gradually though, and with obvious reluctance, Rick pulled back. Carl opened his eyes slowly, blinking up at his father. His lips felt swollen and tender, and he could imagine the flush that had bloomed across his face. Still, he worked to meet his father's gaze.

 

The man looked distraught. His eyebrows were drawn tightly together, lips trembling with words he clearly intended to say but couldn't find the courage to voice. Instead, the hand on the back of Carl's head carded through his hair so, so gently, trying to convey a fraction of the man's feelings. As if he could no longer hold back, he pulled the boy close again, and Carl did nothing to refuse him.

 

Lips pressed tenderly against his temple, and Carl sank further into his father's arms as the man gently rocked them both. He treated the boy as though he were the most delicate treasure, something to cherish and keep safe. Carl inhaled deeply at the thought, chasing the familiar musk of his father. He shuddered slightly, a wisp of contentment trickling down his spine. It emanated from the base of his skull where careful fingers continued to run through his brown tresses, massaging gently.

 

"You're safe now," came the gruff whisper, "can't hurt you anymore, no one can."

 

And though he saw the distinct cognizance written on Rick's face, Carl understood the man was still dealing with the aftermath of his debilitating rampage. Perhaps he needed to verbally convince himself, speak the words out loud until it became reality. And just maybe the boy needed to hear them. He felt taken care of, coddled, a sharp contrast to the bloodthirsty demeanour his father had taken up hardly half an hour earlier. To know he was capable of bringing out both the violent beast and the gentle creature before him was disconcerting, yet flattering, and he wasn't sure which to lean towards.

 

Yearning only to appease the ache in Rick's voice, Carl spoke softly. "You stopped him," his hand traced the collar of his father's shirt, "I wouldn't have been able to on my own, I-I _couldn't._ " Thoughts raced, unbidden, to the forefront of the teen's mind. The way he'd fought recklessly to escape, concocted a feeble plan to snatch the gun up, turn it on two men, but then what? If he'd been successful, and the chances of that were slim to none, his options were extremely limited. If Rick really _had_ been killed, he wasn't sure what he would have done.

 

The hand that combed through his hair never faltered. Taking courage from it, the boy reflexively gripped his father's shirt and muttered a quiet but humble, "thank you."

 

The quick rush of air that blew past Carl's ear caused him to shiver. "I don't need you to thank me, not for that." Rick's arms tightened around him, emphasizing his words. "It's my _job_ to protect you."

 

A pressing emotion was stuck in his throat, causing Carl to nuzzle slightly into his father. Every other time he'd felt such overwhelming affection for Rick, such a need to be _near_ him, he'd run in the opposite direction, forcing distance between them. Now there was nowhere to go, and certainly no drive to leave his father's embrace.

 

"I didn't know what to _do,_ " he whispered, something in him demanding he voice his thoughts, his unyielding fears, "they were so quiet, I don't know how I didn't notice them until they were through the window, but then they had my gun and you were _unconscious -_ " the memory closed off his throat, prohibiting speech as he struggled to work through it. Rick continued petting him gently, and his silent encouragement meant everything.

 

"I need you," the boy finally bleated out, admitting out loud what he had been silently denying for months, "I need you, _so_ much, and I think - " his voice caught, hesitating, but in the end couldn't dismiss the ardent way in which Rick had clung to him, had mapped out the cavern of his mouth with his tongue, how his hands had all but worshipped his body. There _was_ no other explanation, and Carl knew he needed to say it, for both of them.

 

"I think you need me the same way."

 

Like a wilting tree, his father curled around his own smaller frame, hiding his face in the boy's shoulder. One arm encircled his son's waist, holding him without keeping him pinned, while the other fell to his upper back, fisting in his shirt. The teen faltered only a moment before raking his fingers through the man's unruly curls. A rare occurrence was it that Carl found himself offering such physical support for his father, but he would more than readily provide it. 

 

Arms that normally served as a source of strength now clung to the boy in search of it. Carl slipped both of his own arms around Rick's neck, cradling his head to his chest, not wanting even an inch between them; he safely assumed the same could be said for his father. 

 

Shifting his face so it was no longer buried in his son's shirt, Rick spoke with an ear pressed to the boy's heart. "I can't stop what almost happened, what - did - happen," the man's voice skipped oddly over the word, and Carl rubbed soft circles on his temples. He felt a deep exhale in response. 

 

"I'm so sorry, I'm _so sorry._ "

 

He almost didn't hear the whispered sentiment, wouldn't have if Rick's words didn't capture every bit of his attention. And while he'd expected it, the echoing pain he felt at his father's need to apologize was just too much.

 

"You have no reason to be sorry," Carl murmured soothingly, "Dad, you _saved_ me. You didn't let them - hurt me." He settled for vague, not knowing what else to call it, or maybe just not wanting to.

 

"Carl, _I_ hurt you."

 

The words startled the boy, both in message and the tortured hiss in which they were spoken. Rick pulled back, though everything in his body language seemed to imply he wanted the opposite, and opened his mouth as if to continue. Irritation coursed through the teen however, and he was quick to interject.

 

"How? By kissing me?" The flinch that he received was answer enough, and the room seemed to get several degrees colder. 

 

"Do," he started, eyes staring pleadingly into Rick's, "do you regret it?"

 

The raw anguish that crossed his father's features shook his already wavering confidence. Carl began to feel a creeping numbness, the kind that resulted from his last lifeline slipping between his fingers. These thoughts must have played across his face, because in an instant Rick's hands were cupping it, smoothing away the distress presented there. His eyes peered at Carl imploringly, and though the boy tried to look away - the last thing he wanted was to be a _burden_ \- he found himself captivated by that gaze.

 

"Carl, the things I want, they're not - " the man cut himself off again, and the only thing that kept the teen's mouth closed was the _earnest_ way in which Rick spoke to him, as if his words had never weighed more. 

 

"What happened back there, with that piece of - _none_ of it was your fault, I need you to know that. You did nothing wrong." He exhaled through his nose. "It was wrong of _me._ To take advantage like that, when you don't _know,_ you've never - " he looked pained, caressing his son's face tenderly, "Carl, sweetheart, I'm so _sorry._ "

 

Guilt played a powerful factor in most of the choices they made. Rick carried it the heaviest, Carl knew, could see how every decision impacted deeply on him, leaving craters that never eroded. He knew what he needed to do, to say. The doubt he felt was gone, in its place residing determination. He knew there was no way to mistake his father's actions for what they were, no way to pretend they didn't both _need_ each other. The teen wasn't going to let some misguided attempt to protect him hinder what they both so obviously required.

 

"Dad," he sighed, "I don't need you to be sorry. I need you to look at me, _really_ look at me," he reached up with one hand and entwined their fingers, lowering them to his lap, "and tell me you don't want this just as badly as I do."

 

Rick's squeezed his hand, eyes darting between both of his son's, and Carl's heart clenched at the panicked display. "Carl, this isn't - you don't know what you're _asking._ "

 

"I know exactly what I'm asking," he affirmed, "And I won't keep pretending I don't. Dad," the boy locked eyes with his father, "Please, if I'm wrong, tell me, and we can just forget this." But he knew he wasn't, and he knew Rick wouldn't be able to tell him so. It was only because of this that the teen drew himself closer, fingers splayed over his father's chest, letting him know what was happening only a brief second before he pressed their lips together.

 

The initial tension within Rick was palpable, but it melted with the first few slow movements of Carl's lips against his. The boy shivered, making sure to keep his actions mild, _needing_ to show his father he'd made an informed decision. He wasn't just latching onto the nearest person in response to a traumatic encounter. Having physical contact _forced_ on him only made Carl that much more resolved in his choice, made him aware that his father's hands were the only ones he wanted touching him. 

 

And they did, reverently. The boy gasped as Rick's hand trailed down his side, fingers spread wide over his hip. He basked in the delicate way he was handled, his father doing all he could to maintain a steady pace and not push his son for more than he was willing to give. Carl experimentally grazed his tongue over that of his father's, slowly spurring the man into a more active role as he himself entangled his hands in bloodstained curls.

 

There was no immediate desire, no need to rush whatever was being nurtured between them. Just the deep, undefinable craving to be inseparable from the other. The teen slowly dragged his nails down his father's scalp, swallowing the soft moan he received in response. As if encouraged, Carl felt warm hands running over his back, longingly tracing every square inch of concealed skin, and shuddered, wriggling closer. 

 

Where his assailant's hands had groped him, Rick caressed. Where they manhandled him, behaved as though they had the _right_ to touch him, the boy's father skimmed arduous fingers along his spine, begging for permission. It all felt so surreal, dream-like, for in no other point in time had Carl felt so at ease. He never wanted to part from his father, wanted to maintain contact at all times, never mind the impracticalities. 

 

Rick was the first to separate, though his reluctance was as apparent as the first time. The boy's eyes felt glazed, and he knew his cheeks had reddened, but still locked eyes meaningfully.

 

"Okay?" he breathed.

 

His father looked at him for a moment longer. Never had he not appreciated the careful scrutiny with which Rick regarded him, trying endlessly to uncover his son's deepest thoughts, feelings. The teen hoped his expression conveyed how open he felt, how _sure_ he was in what he wanted. His heart leapt as his father nodded his head. 

 

The man released a deep sigh. "Okay," he agreed, nodding again. Carl let the tiniest smile sneak onto his face as Rick's fingers sifted through the boy's hair before dipping down his neck.

 

"I love you, Carl." Rick's voice, though shaking slightly, retained its rumbling timbre. "I love you _so_ much, sweetheart."

 

Carl's closed his eyes, and tilted his head into his father's caressing hand. "I love you too, dad." He didn't expect or want a drawn out conversation at that moment. Settling for the few words that would express the most seemed ideal. 

 

The boy once again found solace in burrowing his face in Rick's neck, inhaling deeply as arms encased him once more. It felt all too easy to nod off right there, knowing he was protected from all outside forces. Large hands continued running across his back, alleviating taut muscles. And perhaps rest did claim him for a few short minutes, because the distant rumble of a motorcycle echoing from outside startled him a little too much. He _knew_ that motor, though, would recognize it anywhere, and with a surge of relief he knew their rescue party was underway.

 

Rick's fingers loosened their grasp on Carl's body, his fight or flight instincts settling once he too recognized the noise for what it was. Glancing up under his eyelashes, the teen felt a genuine smile brewing as their gazes met. 

 

"Told you they'd be looking for us," he murmured, not teasing but _encouraging._

 

Rick returned the smile, cupping his son's cheek tenderly. He didn't say a word, didn't need to. A discussion was inevitable, Carl knew, but for now they'd take it one step at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HEY HEY wanna make my day? See that big text box riiiight down there? You should tooootally let me know what you thought :D

**Author's Note:**

> humdrum-star.tumblr.com


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